


You've Got The Love

by PenelopeMoss



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:41:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24620248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PenelopeMoss/pseuds/PenelopeMoss
Summary: Severus Snape is dragged out for an evening at the Three Broomsticks with his colleagues. Septima Vector lets her hair down. Takes place during Half-Blood Prince.
Relationships: Severus Snape/Septima Vector
Comments: 2
Kudos: 19





	You've Got The Love

Severus Snape leaned forward heavily, cradling his second glass of Firewhiskey, a scowl deepening on his thin lips.

The Three Broomsticks was nearly deserted apart from their boisterous table. Surely he had sat here long enough to excuse himself and go back to his quarters in the dungeons? He had a stack of parchment on his desk, waiting to be graded, and by the looks of it all abysmal work. By and large, the students of Hogwarts appeared no more perceptive at Defense Against the Dark Arts than at Potions. Even so, the mediocrity of student essays was better than spending the evening with this lot.

Horace Slughorn sat across the table, his face dark red and progressing quickly to plum. He was managing to slosh around a near-empty mug of mead, leaning heavily onto Septima Vector. The Arithmancy Professor was bringing a goblet of thick Goblin wine to her lips and taking small sips, her pale eyes roaming the pub. On his other side, Sybill Trelawny was downing her fourth glass of sherry, her laughter growing manic. She was holding Slughorn’s fat hand in her own in an attempt to read his palm, looking even barmier that usual.

“Tea leaves are much more conclusive,” she was saying, “but my dear Horace, I think it is clear from this line – do you see it here? - that the days ahead are full of good fortune. As long as...” she paused, and Horace stopped laughing long enough to peer into Trelawney’s wide-eyed stare, “You stay away from the colour mauve.”

“Mauve?” he whispered.”

“Mauve or burgundy. It spells danger. It’s all right here, Horace.” She traced her fingernail up his palm, and he giggled like a small child.

Filius and Bathseba were engaged in a dull conversation about the intersection of Charms and Ancient Runes. Minerva had managed to escape in the first half hour. Snape had tried to join her, but was pushed back into his seat by Slughorn’s hand on his shoulder. “Come now, Severus. Now I’ve finally got you out of the dungeons, I won’t let you slip away so easily!”

Dumbledore, of course, was nowhere to be found. Snape was here on the Headmaster’s insistence that he join the faculty on this outing to Hogsmeade, initiated by Horace. Apparently, it was something of an ongoing Friday night tradition for the former Head of Slytherin House, though this was the first time that Snape had allowed himself to be dragged into it.

He sighed. Dumbledore was supposed to have joined them. The others thought him busy, his life a mysterious whirlwind of activity in these dark times, but Snape knew the truth. The Headmaster was likely too weak to leave the castle. Despite Snape’s best efforts at brewing a strengthening potion to keep the poison at bay, the Headmaster was growing weaker every day.

Snape took a slow, deep sip of his Firewhiskey. He didn’t like Slughorn, didn’t like the smarmy way he talked, or his fondness for the drink, or his obvious partiality for his students and their “budding talents” – absurd. To think, the man thought Potter was something of a Potions prodigy! Horace may have been an adept brewer in his prime, but clearly old age was fogging the up the old man’s mind. Potter couldn’t brew an ingestible potion if his very life depended on it.

He had no particular fondness for his other colleagues, and they had none for him. Hardly saw them, in fact, despite having lived and worked at Hogwarts for over a decade. And that was fine. He was used to being alone. He watched them from his seat, letting his hair fall forward as it often did to obscure his dark expression, savoring the slow burn of the Firewhiskey.

* * *

Septima took another sip of the Goblin wine. It was too sweet, and it had already gone to her head. She rarely drank, but tonight the weight of her loneliness and the impending danger that the Wizarding world faced was too heavy a burden. She needed something to set her abuzz, to lighten the heaviness in her chest.

Horace was clearly enjoying himself. Sybill’s eyelids were growing heavy, her voice low and slurred. The Divination teacher might well have fallen asleep at any moment, her head lolling down to rest on the table top, but then she’d jolt back into it with a burst of energy.

Filius and and Bathseba had rejoined the conversation, and now Horace was regaling them all with stories about his good friend Kevin Broadmoor, a famous Quidditch player she’d never heard of.

Severus Snape was leaning forward in his chair, cradling his Fireswhiskey, looking predictably surly.

She rarely saw the man outside of the dungeons. The only time he could be found above ground was during meal times in the Great Hall, and his pallor showed it. His skin was white and waxy, his hair lank. She knew the students called him a greasy old bat, and he did look rather off-putting with that scowl on his face. Would it kill the man to crack a smile? He was always sweeping around the dungeons in those long, black robes, making snide remarks.

Septima leaned back in her chair, frowning. Who was she to throw stones? She knew what the students said about her: dry, dull. She’d overheard George Weasley once claiming she was even more boring than Binns. That one had stung.

Arithmancy wasn’t dull to her; _she_ found it fascinating, but somehow she’d earned the reputation for either putting students to sleep, or confounding them so much that they invariably failed their OWLS and their NEWTS. Snape’s attitude was understandable. The incompetence of students, the ungratefulness of the younger generation despite one’s best efforts, could really weigh one down.

Looking at him now, Septima realized with a start that she remembered Severus as an adolescent at Hogwarts. How had she never noticed? He was older by at least three or four years, but their time as students must have overlapped at some point.

She’d been in Ravenclaw, of course, and a bit of a loner, so their paths had rarely crossed. But she did have a vague memory of a young Severus Snape stalking down the corridors. She remembered him very tall and very lanky, dressed in ill-fitting robes, teased mercilessly by the other boys – he was the butt of all the jokes. It’s no wonder, then, that he grew up so surly and anti-social.

Another sip of the Goblin wine, and her head spun when she turned to have a look around the pub. The Three Broomsticks was emptying out. She looked again at the Potions Master – or the former Potions Master, she corrected herself. He’d finally gotten that DADA position he’d always coveted. He did look the part: the dim lighting throwing his face into angular shadows, his black eyes staring out from the curtain of his hair.

_Tall, dark, and handsome_ , she thought, and she smirked. He was not very handsome, but he was quite tall, no longer so lanky as in his youth, and he was certainty full of darkness. He was a bit brooding, wasn’t he? Intense. It was not unattractive.

There were rumours about Severus Snape, about his past loyalties. But the Headmaster trusted him, and Dumbledore was no fool.

Septima reached back and tugged the clip out of her dark brown hair, letting it fall across her shoulders. Maybe she didn’t want to appear so dusty and dull right now. She grinned. The wine had indeed made her lighter.

She leaned over to Snape. “Are you enjoying your new position?” she asked. “Defense Against the Dark Arts,” she clarified.

He looked surprised at being spoken to. He’d been watching Slughorn’s unceasing storytelling with a deepening crease of irritation between his brows. Severus turned his gaze slowly to look at her, and she felt a shiver. His black eyes held hers, unwavering. “I know what my subject is, Septima.” He sounded annoyed. He didn’t elaborate.

“And...do you like it? I know you’ve been vying for the position for quite some time.”

“I don’t see how my personal business is of any relevance to you.”

She sat back, frowning. “I’m just making conversation,” she murmured. If she wasn’t on her third glass of wine, she would’ve left it there, but the buzz of alcohol carried her forward. She leaned onto her elbows, bringing her face closer to his. Somewhere in the periphery, she could hear Slughorn’s voice reaching a crescendo, and Sybill’s shrill laugh at the punch line.

“Severus,” she said.

He turned to look at her again, a look of confusion flashing across his features. “Yes?”

“So, do you like it or not?”

“Do I like what?” His tone was clipped.

“Defense Against the Dark Arts.”

He stared at her, incredulous. “I do. I like it fine.”

“Are you enjoying yourself?”

Severus scoffed. “Do you mean right now? At this moment? No.”

Septima laughed, a bit louder than she’d intended. “No, me neither. Shall we go back to the castle?”

“I’ve tried a few times now,” he said.

“Third time’s a charm,” she smiled. She stood up and put some coins on the table. “Horace,” she said, raising her voice above Sybil’s laugher. “We’d best be getting back, Horace. It’s getting late.”

“Er...is it?” He paused to pull out a pocket watch on a silver chain. “Yes, yes, I suppose. Half past already, is it?” He put his watch away and wagged a stubby finger at her. “Just like you to be the responsible one, Septima. Keeping us all in line!”

Her smile was tight. She walked to the door, her fingers brushing Severus’ shoulder as she passed.

They emerged into the warm autumn evening. The streets of Hogsmeade were deserted. Severus stalked ahead, and Septima hurried to fall into step with him. Horace and the others fell far behind. Filius’ short stature meant he could only walk so quickly, and Sybil was dawdling along, her arms waving about swathed in gauzy scarves.

Severus walked in long strides. His cloak billowed out behind him, aided by the evening breeze. He looked quite dramatic. “You really do look like a bat,” she laughed, coming up at his side.

He stopped walking and turned to her. “What did you say?”

“Oh come now. You must know what the students call you?”

“You,” he said, “are not a student. I did not realize my colleagues also laughed at me behind my back.” His tone was sarcastic, but there was some underlying hurt in his voice that surprised her.

“Oh come now, Severus. It’s just a bit of harmless flirting. No need to get so upset.”

He opened his mouth to retort, but then closed it again. “I...I’m sorry?”

Septima would have blushed, under different circumstances, but she felt warm all over from the wine, loose in her mind and body. “Harmless flirting,” she repeated, enunciating the last word, and she ran one finger slowly down the front of his black cloak, following the trail of shiny buttons down his chest.

Severus stared at her, looking momentarily dumbfounded before a look of anger twisted his features into a grimace. “Well,” he said. “I suggest you stop. You are clearly misinformed. I would never ...” He let the sentence go unfinished, but the sentiment was clear.

Septima stepped back, stung. “Well aren’t you just the arsehole they all say you are.” Her voice shook. “I don’t think I’ve said two words to you since I started teaching here five years ago, and as far as I can tell, neither have most of the faculty aside from the Headmaster. I see now that you are given a wide berth for good reason.”

She pushed past him, walking quickly away. Her emotions welled up faster than they normally would have, prickling behind her eyes. Her face felt hot; her whole body was warm with embarrassment. Thankfully the castle was just down the winding path, and her bed and the forgiving darkness of her room were not far off. So much for a night of fun.

* * *

Snape’s heart was beating rather faster than usual. When was the last time a woman had flirted with him? And then admitted to it?

In the pub, he’d looked up and noticed her hair was down. He hadn’t realized it was so long, and so... soft-looking. The Arithmancy Professor normally kept it clipped severely back at all times. He noticed, too, how the wine had made her cheeks flush in the warm light. He’d noticed that the flush also rose up from her collar where her robes fell open.

Flirting?

He’d snapped at her in his astonishment. He’d felt exposed, unprepared, so he lashed out. Old habits. But now he wondered...what if she’d been serious? Or was she just making fun of him? What did she mean by it?

The Arithmancy professor was walking quickly down the dark path that wound from Hogsmeade to the castle.

He followed a few steps behind, eventually surpassing her. They made it past the castle gates, up to the front doors, into the entrance hall. The both walked up to the main staircase, reaching the banister simultaneously.

Snape was about to turn down into the dungeons, and Septima’s quarters were somewhere on the fifth or sixth floor; he’d never had reason to know exactly where she slept.

She was three steps into her ascent when he threw out a hand and caught her elbow. She turned, her face red, her mouth turned down, her lovely hair spilling over her shoulders. “Uh...Septima,” he said gruffly. “I...uh... some miscommunication earlier. Did you care to join me for a night cap?” Obviously, she would say no.

She looked down at him from the stairwell, and her frown deepened. Snape cursed himself. He shouldn’t have asked. It would be awkward tomorrow at breakfast. Perhaps he’d eat in his rooms for a few days until it blew over.

But then she stepped back down and was suddenly next to him, his fingers still grazing her elbow. “Yes,” she said, slowly. “Sure. I would love that.”

He nodded, turned and walked quickly down the flight of stairs, into the dungeons to his private rooms. He could hear her footsteps trailing him, but he dared not turn around.

* * *

There was a definite chill in his chambers. The room was lined with high torches, and the light flickered down, erratic in the shadows. The walls were bare and made of stone.

In her own rooms, she’d hung a few photo frames of her parents and her siblings, nieces and nephews. Severus had nothing. His desk was cluttered with parchment. There was a heavy bookcase along one wall, obscured in shadow.

He was digging through a set of drawers and came out with a dusty bottle of port. His fingers left a handprint in the dust, and he wiped it jerkily away. Then, he began looking around for two glasses only to find there were none.

“It’s fine,” she said. She took the bottle from him and popped it open with her wand, discarding the cork. She took a sip and handed it back to him.

He sneered down at her. “Are we behaving like seventh years now?” he asked, but he took a long swig anyway, wiping his mouth with the back of his pale hand. Then, he seemed to think better of it. He grabbed two empty beakers from a shelf. In a moment, he’d transfigured them into wine glasses, and poured them each a generous helping.

She raised her glass, but found she had nothing to toast.

Severus looked at her for a moment, and then smiled wryly, almost shyly. “To flirting,” he said in his low baritone.

Septima smiled and clinked her glass against his, taking a sip. It wasn’t bad; better, in fact, than the Goblin wine. But she set the glass down. She didn’t want to overdo it.

A small, nagging voice had piped up in the back of her mind. _What are you doing here?_ it niggled at her. _You’ve had too much wine_ , it said. _You’ll regret this in the morning._

But the voice, Septima decided, was wrong. She was enjoying herself. Severus Snape was an rude and unpleasant, it was a proven fact now, there was no way around it. But the men in Septima’s life were few and far between, and Severus had his merits.

When was the last time she’d been with a man? When had she last felt the solid weight of a body against hers, flesh on flesh, fingers running over her skin?

Ages.

Actually, if she were being precise, it was two summers ago. More than a year. She’d gone home to Surrey to visit her parents, and there had been a colleague of her brother’s in town, Branwen, a balding, baby-faced Ministry clerk. He’d had a sturdy build, but a bumbling personality. Nothing remarkable in the bedroom; she recalled a lot of huffing, his round face patchy red. She saw him several times while she was in town, but then promptly forgot about him once she’d returned to Hogwarts. He was a wizard, but somehow that hadn’t made his life or personality any more magical.

She surveyed Severus Snape. He was mean, sure, but the intensity that emanated from him was palpable.

She took a sip of her port and realized they hadn’t said a word in several minutes. She’d been lost in thought, and he was looking at her flittingly, searching her face, and then looking back down at his emptying glass.

“So, Severus,” she said, coming closer. “You’ve been at Hogwarts for a long time.”

“Yes,” he said. His voice sounded unusual, somewhat strained. She wondered if he was angry. It occurred to her that he might be nervous.

“I know we haven’t spoken much, but I have appreciated your brilliance in potions.” A compliment might relax him, soften the intensity of his glare. “You may not like the children very much, but I can see you’ve earned your post well.”

Snape nodded, his black eyes glittering at her. He took another long sip of his wine. “Your skills in Arithmancy are well-known,” he acknowledged, but quickly added, “Dumbledore does not hire amateurs.”

“Well...” she said, “There’s Sybill.”

His lips twitched. Almost a smile. “I stand corrected.” He looked down at her, his lank hair falling across his shoulders, his gaze unreadable.

She folded her arms, frustration itching up her spine. The effects of the wine were wearing off, and the night was not veering in the right direction. She was standing in the man’s private rooms, the time creeping towards midnight, but she did not know how to bridge the remaining meter of space between them.

She could drink more, refuel her liquid courage, but she didn’t want to take the edge off herself too much, lest the evening pass in a haze.

She stared at Severus Snape, his long, pale fingers wrapped around the wine glass. She wanted to unbutton his robs and see his body. She wanted to feel it beneath her hands while fully sober. She wanted to dip one hand into his trousers, wrap it around his hard length and stare into those impassive eyes, watching him break.

Septima huffed. He raised an eyebrow. “More wine?” he asked, though her glass was half full.

“No,” she said. “No, thanks. So, I take it you’re not seeing anyone?”

His lips stretched into a leer. “Not at the moment,” he said. “And yourself? Do you have a beau back home? A fellow Arithmancy lover, perhaps?”

He said it mockingly, like the whole line of questioning was ridiculous, and Septima wondered if he’d ever been in love. Certainly, he did everything in his power to appear menacing and unapproachable.

“No, I don’t have a beau,” she said calmly, stepping even closer, her heart beating fast. He took a step back, bumping against his desk, his leer disappearing as her face came closer to his. “I’ve actually never been very good at relationships.” She hoped he’d understand that she wasn’t expecting him to date her.

“Hmm...I can understand why.”

“Excuse me?” She pulled back, frowning. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Severus cleared his throat. “You’re very strict. Very cerebral, no-nonsense. This is the first time I’ve seen you relaxed. Some men find that intimidating.”

“You’re saying _I’m_ intimidating?” she demanded in disbelief.

His lip curled. “Perhaps to some. Not to me.” He looked down his nose at her. “I am not easily intimidated,” he clarified.

She leaned forward into him, and put one hand on his black robes. “Neither am I.” She tilted her head until her lips were a breath away. Her eyes fell on his pale skin, the rough jawline. She leaned in and pressed her lips against his.

He kissed her back immediately. She’d half-expected him to push her away, but he _had_ invited her into his rooms.

He was tentative at first, his lips soft and dry. _So this is what Severus Snape tastes like_ , she thought. He smelled faintly woodsy, like herbs and wind, was warm and firm against her. Her blood thrummed in her veins, and she let her lips trail up his jawline, the faint stubble rough, his skin salty.

She felt his hands snake around her waist, and a thrill went through her. He pulled her against him, and her own fingers caught his dark hair.

They broke apart. Septima felt overheated. She removed her coat.

“Aren’t you going to take off your cloak?” she asked. Her voice wavered. His eyes were no longer so impassive. His chest was rising and falling, one hand reaching unconsciously to touch his face where she’d kissed him.

He unclasped the heavy robes and threw them on a chair. He was wearing a thin black shirt beneath them, and black trousers. He looked smaller, less bat-like.

She began to unbutton the shirt, her fingers working the buttons carefully through the holes. She glanced up to see his face, and found him looking down at her. He wasn’t scowling, at least, but he wasn’t smiling either. His expression was quite unreadable, but his breath was coming quickly, in and out, his chest moving beneath her hands.

She undid the last button, and his shirt hung open. She ran her hands along his bare chest, and he shivered. She moved to take the shirt off, but he jerked away suddenly.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he hissed. He looked angry again. “Leave it on. For now.” He sounded nervous, unsure, like he was trying to remember how one acted in these situations.

Septima undid her own robes and pulled them over her head, throwing them over an armchair. She wasn’t wearing much underneath, just a long silk slip.

He watched her, his eyes stalling at her chest. Septima shivered, knowing how the silk must cling to her body, leaving little to the imagination.

“So...” she began, but he came at her swiftly. His hands found her hips, his long fingers running up her back to press her into him as his mouth sought hers. There it was: the intensity. Septima gasped into his mouth, loving the way he pushed her backwards, guiding her across the room.

They stumbled past his desk and through a doorway, until the back of her legs hit something: His bed.

They fell backwards onto it, Severus on top of her, breaking the kiss to press his lips down her neck, to her collarbone.

His fingers were trailing down her body, and they slipped beneath the hem of her slip, pushing it roughly up her legs, past her waist.

She felt a rush of cool air, but his touch left a trail of heat on her bare skin. Septima raised her arms to allow the slip over her head, and Severus pulled it away hungrily.

He took hold of her wrists before she could lower her arms, and held them above her head, lowering his head to kiss her again. She arched against him and moaned.

There was a sense of urgency in their movements.

She ripped her hands out of his grasp and ran them down his chest, feeling the wiry muscles, the ribs, the raised scars on his abdomen.

Her fingers fumbled on his trousers and she undid the fly, then yanked them down his hips along with his pants. He kicked them off the rest of the way, and suddenly he was flush against her, his erection pressing into her thigh, his mouth hot on her neck.

His hands found her bra and tore it off, impatient, grasping each breast in turn. His leaned back to look at her, and her pulse was erratic, her breath coming fast.

His dark hair was wild, falling around his shoulders, his eyes glittering. He cupped her breasts again, squeezing, rolling her nipples between his fingers. A small noise escaped her, and her eyes fluttered briefly shut, then opened again to meet his gaze. Her eyes moved from his face, down his pale chest, to the line of hair reaching from his navel, to his cock pressed between them, hard against her thigh.

She reached out, pulling him forward, opening her knees and arching against him. “I want you now,” she said. She couldn’t wait. There was an ache between her legs, and her knickers were soaked. She slipped them off and kicked them away.

He bent his head and caught her nipple gently between his teeth. Septima gasped. He was rocking against her, rubbing his length against her abdomen. “Come on.” She was murmuring breathlessly against his skin. "Please, just..." 

She wrapped her legs around his waist, jerking him forward. He positioned himself against her, drawing his length back and forth against her slick cunt, then thrust into her. She heard an intake a breath, and she moaned, tightening her legs around his torso.

He thrust into her deep and hard. She angled her hips to meet him, each thrust hitting a sweet spot somewhere in her core.

He didn’t make a lot of noise, but every shuddery gasp that escaped him sent shivers of pleasure through her whole body. His face was buried in her shoulder as his hips jerked against her more desperately, his hands on her shoulders, pressing her against him.

Septima held onto him, caught up in the rhythmic pleasure, his back slick beneath her fingers. “Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, Severus, like that.”

He tensed at the sound of his name, and then crushed her against him even harder, his movements intensifying, the pressure building in both of them.

He was close, she could tell by his tempo, his ragged breath. A sudden thought shot through her mind. A contraceptive potion! She hadn’t taken one in ages. They normally lasted a while, more than a few months, but it had been so long...

She lay her palm flat against his chest and pushed him away. “The contraceptive...” she said weakly. He withdrew immediately, but he was too far gone. He wrapped one hand around his pulsing erection, gasping, and she felt his hot cum on her inner thigh.

Septima moaned, reaching out to lay her palm on his heaving chest. Severus Snape climaxing above her was the sexiest thing she’d seen in ages. .

He met her eyes, breathing hard, looking mortified. “I...” He couldn’t catch his breath. “I’m sorry. It’s been a while since I’ve...”

He wiped her thigh jerkily with his sheets, but she grabbed his arm and pulled him down against her, his body hot on hers. “Don’t be sorry,” she hummed. “That was amazing.”

He was still breathing quickly, and her own heart knocked against her rib cage. He lay still a moment, catching his breath, and then he began to move.

She felt him reach between them, his fingers sliding down her belly, between her legs.

She was momentarily surprised that he would continue. He didn’t seem the type to care about his partner’s pleasure. But then his fingers brushed her clit, began to move in circles. The pressure inside her, momentarily stilled, began to build again, and her mind shuttered.

She felt him shift. His breath and his hair trailed down her body, past her navel. His fingers left the bundle of nerves, and she keened, arching her hips, her eyes fluttering open. She felt a hot kiss on her thighs. She felt his nose and his lips between her legs, felt his hands on her knees pushing them open. Then his lips sealed around her in a blaze of heat, and she moaned. He flicked his tongue against her, licking and sucking as the pressure built higher. She felt one long finger slide inside her wet folds, then another.

“Oh, Merlin, Merlin, Severus, don’t stop...” she was breathing hard again, rambling nonsense, all of her awareness pinpointed on the cranking pleasure, the feeling of his mouth, of his fingers filling her, curling up to hit that spot, there, _there_...

Septima’s hips bucked as her orgasm rippled through her, her walls clenching against his fingers. It came at her in waves, and then slowly ebbed away.

When she opened her eyes, some indefinite time later, she saw Severus was next to her again. His head was on the pillow, his face turned away. She stared at his black hair, his pale back. Somewhere along the way, he’d discarded the shirt. The heady smell of sex was thick in the air. She pulled the blankets up around her, trying to catch her breath.

She listened to his breathing. Could he really be asleep, so quickly?

Septima’s chest was rising and falling rapidly. The heat seemed to fade from the room, his room coming back into itself: a dark, chill dungeon.

She swallowed. Would he want her to leave now? He’d probably want her gone. Maybe it was for the best. She could already feel the lump of awkwardness building in her throat. The wine had worn off entirely.

She swallowed, wishing he’d say something. “I guess I’ll...” she started, laying a hand on his pale back. He tensed, then relaxed. He turned to face her slowly, his black eyes catching hers.

He looked uncertain, vulnerable. It was an expression she couldn’t reconcile with Severus Snape. “You don’t have to...” he said, so quietly there was barely any voice to it at all. She noticed he was holding his left arm in an odd way, pressing it beneath his body.

She reached out, took his arm, and saw the Dark Mark stark against his forearm. Septima jerked away, as if burned.

Something flashed in his eyes. He drew back. He was reaching to the floor where his shirt lay crumpled. She could see his expression closing, pulling away.

“Wait Severus. Wait.” She put one hand on his bicep. He stilled, turning to look at her. The black hair brushed his shoulders. He looked uncertain, deciding. “I’ve heard the rumours about you. It’s not like I didn’t know. But the Headmaster trusts you, and I trust his judgment.” She paused. “Even if he did hire Sybill.”

His lips twitched. Another almost-smile.

She tightened her grasp on his arm. “If this is a part of your past, then let it lie in the past.” She surprised herself. The sight of the Dark Mark brought a rush of horror, but she also wanted to believe her own words; she didn’t want to leave the bed. She wanted him to look at her like he had been, before she’d seen his arm.

“Can I still stay?” she whispered. “It’s late, and it’s cold. I’d rather not wander through the castle to my own rooms.”

His black eyes glittered. She leaned slowly forward, gently, and kissed him again. He kissed her back.

She pulled him back down, and she turned on her side and pressed her back into his chest. He hesitated, but then she felt his arm curling around her. She felt his chin press against the top of her head, his body mold itself against hers. She could feel his chest moving with his breath.

Septima closed her eyes. "Goodnight, Severus," she whispered. 

She felt the hum of his response against her back. She was warm, sleepy. She drifted towards sleep, wondering what he'd be like in the morning.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I recently realized that Snape died when he was just 38, and that got me feeling bad for him. Sad childhood at Spinner's End, crappy adolescence, then a lonely adulthood at Hogwarts, followed by an early death. I wanted the poor guy to get some lovin', so this is what came out of that. 
> 
> Please Review:)


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